Contained in a Crystal
by dyingimmortal
Summary: A collection of Zutara drabbles and ficlets. Updated sporadically.
1. Enough

_I've had a couple of Zutara drabble ideas sitting around my iPod for a while now, and I finally decided to polish them up and post them in honor of Kim's birthday. I was totally going to write you something long but then none of the ideas I had were working out too well and I'm busy with exams (should totally be studying right now, haha) so… here, have this lame collection of drabbles instead. OTL (There are a few more I'll be posting in the next couple of days, and then updates for this will turn sporadic.)_

_I've always been hesitant to write for Zutara because it's so popular but it can be such a subtle ship; I didn't want to write something blatantly obvious and overdone and get all the nuances wrong. But here is a lame attempt anyway. Gah. Let me know what you think?_

* * *

The comet is approaching.

It is a slow streak across the sky, a fiery blur of red and gold that darkens the air with raw power. The atmosphere is heavy and full of possibilities: unspoken words, unfulfilled promises, possible futures of crystal-water and dancing fire and golden crowns and sparks of searing blue, futures that all end the same way: in flames.

It is funny, Katara thinks, how something so destructive can be so beautiful. Riding in the sky on Appa, her fingers tight on the harness and the wind tearing through her hair, she gazes around, the three of them encompassed by a neverending pool of crimson. It is the color of fire, the nation that started it all; the color of blood, both the draining liquid of death and the substance of life; the color of Zuko's tunic, flapping in the breeze against his back as he sits next to her, his arms outstretched, corded muscles tight with tension.

He voices his worries about Aang and she shuts them down immediately, because if she doesn't she'll start to agree with him. They are already facing an unknown future (_arcs of crackling blue, courtyards of flames_) and she does not need any more variables to fret over.

But they are heading towards that future now, silent once more, surrounded by scarlet, heat scorching their skin, and there is nothing more she can say, nothing more she can do. He will face his sister soon and it will all end, one way or another. She can only believe in a positive outcome.

They don't know what will happen next, if Aang will really come back in time, if Azula will prove to be too much to handle (Katara is not a firebender but even she can feel the comet's force, the thrum of power in her blood, tingling through her veins). They don't know where they will be tomorrow, or the next week, or the next year, or if they will be here at all.

But right now, they are just two people on a sky bison, flying through the air, the wind whipping their faces, just a small speck against a vast sky that overlooks a vast world. Right now, she is here with him, supporting him like he supported her; it is her turn now and she will play her part. Right now, they are quiet, and he turns to look at her with a faintly reassuring smile on his face, and she smiles back because it is just the two of them against the world, and for now, that is enough.


	2. Imagination

_Modern AU drabble; this is completely based off a Rivetra (Levi/Petra from Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan) drabble by **littlebatsy** on tumblr; link is on my profile. Idea is not mine at all!_

* * *

When Katara sees his picture in the newspaper, just a small square of black and white, she doesn't know why but her breath catches in her throat and she pauses to stare.

There is something dark and comet-shaped shielding one of his eyes, and for some reason she imagines it as an angry burn scar, a cruel symbol of disobedience and respect, rough and prickly under her fingers.

His eyes—one skewed into a permanent glare, the other wide and open and honest—are a pale shade, and for some reason she imagines them to be light gold, the color of the rising sun on water, the color of diluted honey, the color of crushed daisy petals pressed between the pages of a book, shades of yellow leeched from the petals.

His expression is somewhat defiant, and for some reason she imagines his voice to be low and raspy, glossing over consonants and curling over vowels, sparking with determination and passion as he speaks up for what he believes in, words like _peace_ and _honor_ flitting through her brain.

And then she shakes her head and puts the newspaper down, and tells herself not to get too caught up in reading obituaries.

* * *

_(He was struck by lightning.)_


End file.
